


Truth to Be Told

by Scarlet_Nin



Series: Call Me into the Light, Make Me Feel Alive [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, First sibling to realize Reggie was full of bullshit, Gen, Ghost Ben Hargreeves, He's observant and notices shit even tho he doesn't want to, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mind Games, Protective Klaus Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Smart Klaus Hargreeves, Takes place a few months after Ben's funeral, The Hargreeves Are 16 years old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Nin/pseuds/Scarlet_Nin
Summary: “Number Four.”The call of his number dampens the euphoria of his high a little, brings him back down faster than he’d like, if Klaus is honest, and he can feel Ben’s startled intake of breath fanning across the back of his neck at hearing Dad’s voice drop from cold neutrality to something resembling a warning.“It has come to my attention that according to your siblings you insist on having successfully channeled Number Six’s spirit into this world.”Blood running cold in his veins, Klaus’ head whips up, thinking he’s misheard.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Reginald Hargreeves
Series: Call Me into the Light, Make Me Feel Alive [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118291
Comments: 8
Kudos: 203





	Truth to Be Told

It’s not the first time Klaus finds himself getting called into Reginald’s office and it won’t be the last time either. He’s a frequent visitor, much like Luther, Dad’s respectively most and least liked kids get the honor to sit in that uncomfortable chair for god knows how long, either retelling what lead to their last missions going astray, shoving off the blame onto others, or in Klaus’ case, listening to the old man go on about his abysmal behavior, waiting for him to doll out his punishments.

Biting back a groan, he drags his feet, dutifully following Mom down the hallway with one hand jammed into his pocket, a joint dangling from the one hanging by his side. He takes a drag, inhaling the smoke as deep as his lungs allow when she isn’t glancing back at him to make sure he’s following, lagging a step and a half behind her.

Far too soon, they come to a stop in front of the gate to hell.

“Klaus, darling,” Mom turns around to put a hand on his shoulder. “You know your Father doesn’t like to see you smoke inside the house. Think of all the ash.”

“Yeah, because _that’s_ the problem,” Klaus mutters to himself with a snort. “Not like he liked me more before I started doing drugs.”

Mom’s smile dims a little, but she doesn’t refute his words with empty declarations of love like she does with the rest of them. It wouldn’t surprise him, if Dad decided to cut her code down to the barest necessities regarding him.

While she spares him the lecture on health and drugs, knowing it’d fall on deaf ears, she doesn’t budge, holding out her free hand, removing the one on his shoulder after giving him a gentle squeeze.

Klaus glances down at his half-burnt blunt, bringing it up to his lips to take one last hit before letting her pluck it from his mouth, watching her put it out on her palm without flinching.

Behind her, Ben lingers, shoulders stiff as a board, arms wrapped around his stomach, glancing at Dad’s door with unease. A familiar sight. He never took well to Daddy’s scolding. Must be strange for him to witness what’s just another afternoon for Klaus.

Mom attempts to fix his uniform, smoothing down his jacket, adjusting his collar and his crooked tie, pulling it tighter around his neck than what he’s comfortable with.

Swatting her hands away, he knocks on the door, four times to be obnoxious, and throws it open, strolling inside, exhaling the smoke with a breathy sigh.

Dear old Dad doesn’t look up from his notebook to greet him, the prick. Not a “hello” or a “How are you, son?” or even a distasteful flicker of his gaze to show he’s noticed Klaus stepping into his stuffy, cold sanctuary, he forbids them entry to without his permission and supervision.

Though, he has to be smelling the smoke. Klaus reeks of his high, breath sour from alcohol, the skunk, herbal odor that comes from weed clinging to him like cheap perfume. Taking glee in knowing the smell will linger the longer he stays inside these four, eerie walls covered in monstrosities capturing Reginald Hargreeves ugly mugshots, Klaus drags the chair in front of the desk back and flops down in his seat.

He can hear Mom close the door behind him, her heels moving further away as Ben’s cold presences comes to linger behind his chair.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the silence, trust me, I _do_ ,” Klaus begins to say after five minutes of squirming around to get comfortable without a word from Reggie have passed, “but you did have a reason for calling me here, right? This isn’t a prank call, is it? Because I had important things to do —”

“Poisoning yourself, I presume.”

“Exactly.” Klaus nods vigorously. “And I’d like to get back to it pronto please.”

Best to get it out in the open than to wait for the axe to fall and snap his neck in half. If dear old Dad got nothing better to do than to amuse himself with punishing him, he’d like a head start in getting as wasted as possible. Might as well go all out when his crimes are gonna land him in prison.

At least this time, he’ll have a cell buddy to distract him.

“Number Four.”

The call of his number dampens the euphoria of his high a little, brings him back down faster than he’d like, if Klaus is honest, and he can feel Ben’s startled intake of breath fanning across the back of his neck at hearing Dad’s voice drop from cold neutrality to something resembling a warning.

_Danger, danger!_ the bells inside Klaus’ mind bellow and he fights the urge to cringe, _Get the fuck outta there._

Pushing these thoughts out of mind, he hums to show he’s paying attention. Klaus stops drilling his nails on the arms of the chair – millions of dollars to his name and yet the old man couldn’t find a chair more comfortable than a rock, _typical_ – and bobs his head.

“That’s me.”

_“Klaus,”_ hisses Ben quietly, like he’s afraid _Dad_ might hear him and it takes everything in him not to hiss back and tell Ben to wait outside if he can’t handle being in a room with their shitty excuse of a father.

Fortunately, before he gets the chance to put his foot into his mouth, Reggie continues his line of thought.

“It has come to my attention that according to your siblings you insist on having successfully channeled Number Six’s spirit into this world.”

Blood running cold in his veins, Klaus’ head whips up, thinking he’s misheard.

But Reginald is scrutinizing him, his icy, beady eyes pinning him to his seat like the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead, daring him to move. Suddenly, Klaus finds himself crashing back down onto concrete instead of drifting merrily along the clouds, the cozy blanket made of drugs is ripped away harshly with one ruck, leaving him out in the cold, exposed and vulnerable.

“What?” he chokes out a nervous giggle, though there’s nothing remotely funny about the situation.

It’s been _months_ since Ben’s funeral and Dad’s only bringing it up now?

Klaus calls bullshit.

Dad is…he’s _playing_ at something, waiting for a reaction from Klaus that will give himself away and he’s starkly reminded of Five’s disappearance. Of standing where he’s sitting now, Reginald’s shadow looming over him, a head or two taller, the glimpse of sunlight peeking through the curtains doing nothing to hide the shadows crawling across his face. The heavy hand on his shoulder, fingers digging dents into his bones matching the unrelenting voice that tears into him and eyes so cold that the breath in his lungs froze, sending shivers down his spine, knowing having Dad’s undivided attention meant nothing good.

He’s wearing the same face. Full of expectations and a deep-seated demand for answers, Klaus can’t ever hope to meet or give.

Ben has gone silent, if Klaus couldn’t feel him, he’d think his brother phased out of existence to haunt somewhere else. Anywhere is better than here. Ben shouldn’t have to hear whatever else their asshole of a Dad might say. Klaus desperately wants him to leave.

“My powers don’t work when I’m high,” he tells Reginald, like he hasn’t written that simple fact down in one of his precious diaries he keeps around. “That’s like the whole reason I’m popping pills like tic tac, you know? Well, that and the amazing side effects of not giving a shit about literal anything else.”

Showing off his teeth in a grin, he tries to play it cool despite the way his heart is hammering away in his chest. Cold sweat has broken out across his skin and he doesn’t dare glance near Ben’s direction.

Dad can’t know Ben’s sticking around. He’d find some way to exploit him, hurt him again and drag the others into it and the thought of him tormenting Ben after killing him makes Klaus downright nauseous.

Not this time, he vows silently to Ben.

This time, _Klaus_ is in control. He’s the only one with the powers to interact with Ben and if he plays dumb – if he says _no_ , puts down his foot – there’s nothing anybody can do to force him. Not even Reginald fucking Hargreeves.

The realization fills him with giddy schadenfreude that the thought of spitting on the old man’s efforts and dreams usually brings after a cold night in the company of too many ghosts to count.

He’ll have to convince Reggie he’s a liar. That should be easy. Everybody else already knows it to be true. What’s a little white lie in the scheme of the greater good? He’s putting what Papa taught him to good use – he should be proud!

Adapting. Lying. Defending his weak spots. Taking a hit and rolling with the motion to get back on his feet to run.

It’s not his fault, he took to excelling in his failures. It’s what he’s good at. What’s the point of fighting when he can run and leave it all behind?

Fighting got Ben _killed_.

The reminder is enough to keep him sane in the dark hours he’ll have to endure, if things go south. Fuck Dad and his stupid mind games. The bastard doesn’t deserve any closure after what he did. Klaus doubts that’s even what he _wants_.

_Well, it doesn’t matter what he wants,_ Klaus thinks spitefully, _he’s not going to get it._

Not even for a chance to get the rest of their siblings on board. It’d be an empty rush for both of them, the novelty of speaking to Ben would wear off in time, tainted with an unseen image of air. Having to use him as a translator would only highlight the fact that Ben would always be out of reach to them to see, touch or hear.

Klaus isn’t interested in hearing what price the bastard wants in exchange of buying him the benefit of the doubt from his siblings. Good riddance.

“And I haven’t been sober since…” he pretends to think for a minute, counting on his hands. “…since we still wore the shorts with the uniform, I think. What an upgrade on the dress code. Now, if you’d only let us wear skirts, that’d be great. I was thinking of black leather, to spice it up a little because the blue gets old after wearing it for _sixteen years straight_ , and Diego would totally be down to wear something skin-tight to show off his muscles. Fits in with his whole batman aesthetic.”

Just like the time where the bastard asked about Five, if he’s honest, there’s no reason for Reggie to think he’s lying. But for a man, who can’t give a straight answer on a good day, he’s not patient enough to fall for Klaus’ misdirection and distractions.

Something shifts in Reginald’s expression, no longer devoid of emotion, when Klaus dares to look at him. With the curtains pulled shut, the only light source is the dim-lit lamp on the desk that’s doing no favors in calming the restless feeling of being trapped inside Klaus’ chest.

“You haven’t seen Number Six since his passing?”

Mouth dry, he keeps his voice from quivering, “No.”

Except, Klaus realizes with dawning horror, Dad doesn’t seem to believe him.

It hurts, more than a rejection ever could. To think Dad’s the only one believing him about seeing Ben when he’s the only person Klaus ever lied to about his brother sticking around—it feels like a slap to the face, knocking glasses askew he hadn’t known he was wearing. _Dad_ believed him. Even when Diego, Allison, Vanya and Luther did not. Bitterness wells up and he chokes it all down together with the panic threatening to blindside him, swallowing convulsively, resisting the urge to pick at his lips with his teeth.

“You children are special,” Reginald narrows his eyes when Klaus begins to fidget and wipe his sweaty palms on his pants. “It wouldn’t be outside of the possibilities to presume that Number Six, should he have manifested as a spirit, is able to remain unaffected by your attempts to handicap yourself.”

It takes a moment to catch up to him. Dad’s calling him out. Has probably _tons_ of evidence ready to prove his point – the fucking cameras around the house must have plenty of instances of him talking to Ben, a fact their siblings willfully ignore – and looking him in the eye, Klaus can see where they’re heading to as clear as if he’s already buckled into the car, peering out through the window, ready to be driven off to the cemetery.

Dad expects him to crave. To give in to the threat of forcing the truth out of him with another trip to the mausoleum. Ben would get a front row seat to watching him get tortured for hours in his name.

Ben, who lost his faith in Reginald the same day resentment about his lack of grief began to fester. The only ghost to promise Klaus to never turn into the nightmares he fears.

“Not special enough it seems,” Klaus says irritably, a frown replacing his grin. “’Cause I spy nothing in this godforsaken house. Not a single ghosty to be seen. Lucky me!” he crows, leaping to his feet, needing to get away and _fast_. “Now, if you’ll excuse me —"

“Sit down, Number Four.”

“Ben’s not here,” he blurts, hands balling into fists by his sides. His brother doesn’t speak up to refute the fact, silent and pale-faced, another shadow melting into the walls of the dim-lit study. Another one of _Dad’s_ ghosts. “I don’t see him, okay? And even if I did, there’s nothing he’d like to say to _you_. Nothing you’d deserve to hear after getting him killed —”

“Number Four,” Reginald slams his hands down onto the desk, rattling every trinket as he rises to his feet, nearly causing the lamp to fall off and Klaus flinches, biting down on his tongue in shock. “Sit down.”

For a breath, he doesn’t move, stupidly paralyzed.

_“C’mon, Klaus,”_ Ben’s quiet voice echoes in the sudden silence. _“Sit down.”_

Numbly, Klaus plonks back down on his seat, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

Reginald’s lips thin, as close to a scowl, as he gets, before he glances back down at his notes. Heart beating rabbit fast, Klaus keeps his mouth shut, tasting blood on his tongue.

“I’ve always had high hopes for you children,” Reginald says, prompting Klaus to roll his eyes. “Your abilities are an oddity in this world and give you the opportunity to accomplish greater purposes than you could ever imagine. Which is why, I’ve invested my time in helping you refine them.”

Unable to control himself, Klaus snorts.

Reginald doesn’t take kindly to that.

“Against my best efforts, your determination to prove yourself to be a waste of my time, has been nothing short of disappointing.”

Ben steps forward at the words, coming up to lounge on the arm on his chair, arms crossed tightly over his stomach. Mirroring his brother in a show of solidary, Klaus crosses his own arms over his chest, sinking deeper into his seat.

“I’m so terribly sorry—” he says, faux solemnly, aware that both of them know he’s not. The only thing he mourns is the lack of a drink. He’s not shit-faced enough for this nonsense. “—that I’m useless. Must suck for you to be stuck with cannon fodder rather than a lookout with reliable information. Here’s an idea, why don’t we just call it quits and retire early? We’re down to three anyway. Clock’s ticking.”

Reginald doesn’t deign him with a response. He simply talks on as if Klaus had never spoken, face set into stone.

“You in particular, Number Four.” He curls his lips in distaste. “All that potential simply wasted to spite me.”

“Excuse you?” Klaus snaps, “Not everything revolves around you. I’m taking the drugs because I—because I _need_ them. The fact it’s pissing you off is just a bonus.”

Ben gives him a look like he doesn’t want to agree with Dad, because he’s an asshole, but he’s not on Klaus’ side of this argument either.

“And why would you need to poison yourself?”

The sheer fucking _audacity_ of this asshole leaves Klaus reeling. He fumbles for a bit, mouth opening and closing, reason after reasons racing through his mind, fast enough to make his head spin.

In the end, it’s Reginald who gives the answer Klaus couldn’t bring himself to voice.

“Because you’re afraid?”

Hearing the truth laid out makes Klaus’ chest burn, his gaze falling to the floor to avoid looking up into unforgiving eyes. Put that way makes him sound pathetic and childish and whiny and he’s all of those things, but he doesn’t think he’s overreacting when his fear is genuine, leaving him on the verge of drowning in his panic he barely manages to pull himself out of, whenever too many ghosts corner him in the dark.

All those hours spent rocking back and forth, forced to listen to the screaming and crying of sharp, angry, biting voices, the phantom sensations of hands scratching and pulling at his skin, blood he can’t ever seem to wash off, suffocated by the dead without a moment to breath or quiet —

“So, what if I am?” Klaus grits his teeth, pretends his hands aren’t shaking, tightening his grip on his upper arms enough to bruise. “You say that like having an entourage of bloody, shrieking vultures following you around twenty-four-seven wouldn’t scare other people shitless!”

“Excuses,” Reginald dismisses and Klaus stops listening after that.

It’s an old argument. One he’s never won before. He’ll raid the bar and puke on the expensive carpets as a consolation prize later.

As long as Diego doesn’t catch him, of course. A black eye for making Mom’s cleaning job harder that it needs to be would clash horribly with his eyeliner. Maybe setting another curtain on fire would warm the sinking pit of what he refuses to call disappointment in his chest.

“However,” Reginald says, catching his attention. “I’m willing to reconsider a different approach.”

Klaus jostles upright in his seat, head jerking up. “What?”

Immediately, he tenses up, on guard. Last time Dad came up with a “different approach” he was introduced to the horrors of using the mausoleum as a rehab center.

Reginald observes him. Upon seeing he’s got Klaus’ full attention, he pauses, probably to let him stew in anticipation and dread. Psychological torture is a degree the old man got full marks in and he applies his teaching to his unwilling test subjects as soon as the opportunity arises.

Ben sits up a little straighter, leaning close enough Klaus can feel the chill seep into his right side. It’s a small comfort having him close when the contact still stings and makes him want to cringe away from the cold when he’s wound up like this.

“Perhaps we don’t need to desensitize you of your fear of the dead,” Reginald muses, doing a one-hundred eighty in attitude that Klaus doesn’t buy for a second, brows furrowing in suspicion. “Although that issue will need to be dealt with eventually, Number Four,” he warns, catching Klaus’ gaze, before continuing, “There’s a chance you have simply been lacking the right motivation to focus on your powers.”

Blinking in surprise, Klaus frowns.

“You’re calling me lazy,” he summarizes, slumping back into his chair, and shakes his head. “You’re not wrong, I do hate getting my hands dirty. It’d run my nails!” he uncrosses his arms to wiggle his fingers, chipped black nail polish staring back up at him. He’ll have to fix that soon. “But what do you think you can offer me?”

_That’s better than the drugs?_ lingers in the air, an unspoken challenge.

“Money? A car? A pet?” Klaus tries to guess. “Ohhh, I know, I know—” he snips his fingers— “is it your love and approval? Because I’m afraid I’ll have to pass if that’s the case, but fear not, Luther would love to take you up on that offer.”

“How about Number Six?”

Abruptly, Klaus’ heart plummets to the bottom of his stomach, the ground underneath him crumbles away.

Ben startles next to him, phasing in and out of sight in the corner of his eye like he’s a glitch – there one second, then gone, only to reappear in the next.

“The fuck did you just say?”

Klaus doesn’t recognize his own voice. Low, sharp, ready to cut a bitch with an icicle. His pulse is thrumming fast against his throat, in his ears and he’s sitting ramrod straight, hackles raised.

“Mind your language, Number Four,” Reginald admonishes, “You will not address me with such vulgarities. Is that clear?”

“No, no, no,” Klaus waves a hand as if to swat the scolding away. “We’re not changing the goddamn subject now! _You_ —” he jabs a finger at Reginald. “—are going to tell me what you meant when you spoke of Ben. Now.”

For a moment he thinks Reginald will refuse to elaborate. The man hates speaking in simple terms without riddles as much as he hates to talk to any of his children for long periods of time.

But despite the rude tone he normally wouldn’t have tolerated, Reginald regards him with the same sort of intensity he expressed when he studied Five’s jumps, carefully invested in keeping him in the same room to get close to his research.

The man gives him a curt nod instead.

“I believe it’s possible for you, Number Four, to reach past the veil and to pull Number Six’s spirit through, back into the world of the living as a physical apparition so to speak. You are but a door between life and death.”

“You’re saying…I could make Ben real?” Klaus breathes out, wide eyed, on the edge of his seat. “That I could…that the others could _see_ him too? He could touch stuff like a—like he used to?”

A short pause of consideration later. “With enough training, of course.”

Laughter bubbles up, unbidden and airy and hollower than he feels. It spills out in a rush, expelling the breath Klaus wasn’t aware he was holding, fading as quick as it came.

“Fuck you.” Klaus leaps to his feet in his hurry to get away. The chair gets knocked to the ground from the force, a faint noise to the buzzing in his ears. “Was that your ploy? To use Ben as the cheese to get the lab rat to walk through your stupid maze?”

Ben stands next to the fallen chair, one hand hovering in the air, outstretched towards him in an attempt to calm him, eyes wildly darting from Reginald to Klaus and back again.

“Number Four—”

“Screw training — screw _you_ ,” Klaus spits out, heading towards the door. “I don’t have to listen to this shit.”

A sigh. “If you change your mind you know where to find me.”

“I won’t,” Klaus promises fiercely, pulling the door open, knuckles white around the handle. “Don’t keep the lights on for me, Five didn’t come back either and neither will Ben, because _you_ got him killed.”

He slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame, storming down the hallway, staggering around a corner, hearing Ben hollering at his back to wait up.

_“Klaus!”_

Nowadays feelings are hard to come by. The drugs have the wonderful effect of numbing him in ways even the harsh cold of the mausoleum couldn’t reduce him to – out of reach for the hands wishing to grab him, living or dead, insensible to anything other than the heady embrace of a high – but the fire boiling through his veins replaced the fog with smoke and he’s sure it’s coming out of his ears.

_“Wait for me, asshole!”_

Rounding another corner, he comes face to face with Luther. His brother halts, blinks rapidly and Klaus shoulders past him without so much as a greeting, going straight for his room.

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”_ comes a shout, just as he opens the door.

Hearing Ben curse nearly makes him falter. Instead of turning around to hand himself over to his brother’s judgement, Klaus slams the door shut after himself.

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say. I miss Klaus & Ben. ):


End file.
